


Till Death Do Us Part (I know That You Are Mine)

by ArtsyDeath



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Barebacking, Blood Kink, Complicated Relationships, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, F/F, Female Harry Potter, Female Tom Riddle, Loneliness, Magic Cock, Master of Death Harry Potter, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Obsessive Harry Potter, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Porn With Plot, Possessive Tom Riddle, Possessive Voldemort, Power Dynamics, Pregnancy Kink, Rough Sex, Scars, Size Kink, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 19:56:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18268319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtsyDeath/pseuds/ArtsyDeath
Summary: Harry is a reluctant Master of Death, travelling from one reality to the next, watching entire worlds decay around her - unable to die.A chance meeting brings her upon a new curiosity, an odd twist of fate that ties her together with a Tom Riddle very different from her own.-Or: Harry is lonely and Tom is... Tom.





	Till Death Do Us Part (I know That You Are Mine)

It isn’t wrong to say that Harry is _fascinated._

She can almost hear Albus voice at the back of her mind, cautioning her, telling her to not get swept up in the sphere surrounding Tom Riddle but it’s pushed back as the hush falls as the Dark Lord steps past the curtains held open by a young Lucius Malfoy, her red eyes sweeping almost absently over them.

Tall and elegant, her hair dark and short, styled back to give an excellent view of her neck – robes hanging almost carelessly off her shoulders, her feet bare.

She would be in her fifties now, Harry knows, but the age hadn’t carved lines into her face – if anything she looked untouched by it, a sort of eerie displacement that made her look young and old at the same time.

Around her people were kneeling but Harry remains standing – mouth curling up as red eyes found her with a brief flash of annoyance.

She was the Master of Death, forever caught at the age of seventeen, and Harry allows the illusion over her right eye to fall – baring the white of her iris and the Deathly Hallows symbol in the middle of it, watching as annoyance gives to interest and sharp hunger.

“Take her to my room,” Tom demands and Lucius freezes, stuffing the wand he’d drawn back into his robes and Harry lowers her head – following the boy as he gestures, illusion back in place as she allows her hood to cast her face back in darkness.

Lucius leads her down fancy corridors, his curiosity clear but smart enough not to voice or question his Lord’s decision as he finally comes to a halt. “Please wait here,” he intones, bowing his head, and Harry pushes inside, closing the door softly behind herself.

Tom’s room is elegantly furnished – a large bed, fancy chairs by the crackling fire, bookshelves crowding with all sorts of old and new tomes, one lying open on the bedside table and Harry lifts it up, just enough to peer at the cover with a twitch of her lips when she doesn’t recognise the language.

She lets it fall back and opens up the small corner cupboard, pulling out a bottle of expensive red wine and a glass before dropping down in the chair that was undoubtedly Tom’s – pulling the cork open with a twist of magic and pouring generously.

Harry is on her second glass when the door opens – sprawled out with her hood pulled back, gloved hands raising the glass in a toast as it closes behind the other.

“You certainly spared no expenses on this,” Harry says, pleasantly buzzed.

“It was a gift,” Tom murmurs, studying her carefully. “From someone seeking my favour.”

Harry tilts her head, considering her. “They’re dead,” she guesses and Tom inclines her head, letting the robes slide off her and pool on the floor before sinking down into the free chair.

Harry beckons for a second glass from the cupboard, leaning over to pour as Tom watches her, accepting it with a tingle of magic that tickles at Harry’s senses before she raises it to her lips.

Harry wonders what she sees in the scar that digs deep from beneath one eye to the other in a rough curve over her nose, the clip at her jaw that keeps her mouth from stretching into a full smile and then – of course – the death mark on her forehead, burning just as vivid as the day she’d gotten it.

The tie that anchored her from one Tom Riddle to the next, burning to life in the worlds where the Dark Lord still lived.

Tom places the glass aside, wine barely touched.

“Show me,” Tom demands and Harry closes her eyes before opening them up again, baring the Hallows mark as the Dark Lord leans forward, reaching out with long elegant fingers to touch beneath her eye, studying the sharp lines, the circle in the middle where her pupil should have been.

“How is this possible?” she murmurs. “The Stone is in my possession but the Elder Wand is with Albus Dumbledore and the Cloak has been considered lost to the ages…” Her gaze sharpens. “At least in this world.” She tilts her head, drawing her hand back. “Will you tell me your name?”

“Harry,” she admits with a curl of her mouth. “In my world you were a _man_.”

Tom raises a brow at her, humming. “And why,” she asks, leaning back, her voice silky, “did you come to _me_?”

Harry downs the last of her wine, placing it aside and rising, carefully tugging one glove off and then the next, placing them aside as Tom watches her.

Magic unlaces her boots and she steps out of them along with her socks and she draws a hand down her front, button after button loosening until it fell to the floor with a shift of her shoulders, leaving her upper body bare, nipples pebbling under the gaze of the Dark Lord as she takes a step forward.

“Have you ever wondered,” Harry murmurs. “What it would be like to _fuck_ the _Master of Death_?”

Tom’s fingers curls around the buckle in her belt, thumb stroking over the Deathly Hallow mark in the silver. “Is this what you do? Travel from one world to the next in search of the next Tom Riddle?” she asks, eyes dark.

“You would be my first,” Harry admits and Tom gives her a sharp tug forward, legs pressing up against the edge of the chair, spread beside the Dark Lord’s.

She doesn’t say that she’ll be her first _ever_. That despite the many years, the many worlds, she hadn’t felt the urge as strongly as when she first laid her eyes on this version of Tom Riddle several months back – that she’d spent all this time thinking of her, drawing her face, her hands, her neck, obsessing over the slightest of details and masturbating to them inside the small apartment she’d claimed for her own.

Just the touch of her hand on her buckle is making her embarrassingly wet, hyperaware of just how close she was to having her dreams become reality.

“Show me,” Tom hisses, eyes dark with hunger. _“Show me just how much you want me.”_

Harry swallows as fingers curl away from her buckle, arms settling on the armrest as the Dark Lord leans back, eyes lidded and waiting as she stands frozen in place – unsure what to do, how to act, all her plans and fantasies just a buzz in the back of her mind as she stares at the woman.

Slowly she sinks to her knees, pressing her cheek against the inside of the Dark Lord’s leg, inhaling the scent of her as she turns her head pressing a kiss to the fabric – and then another, further up, feeling the prickling of Tom’s magic against her lips.

But she knows that she's not asking Harry to touch her – not like that.

So she uncoils, rising back up and stepping back, reaching down and finding the tacky buckle, undoing it with a click of metal, dragging it out of the loops and discarding it aside. She flicks the button of her pants open, hooking her thumb in the fabric and dragging them down along with her underwear, leaving her completely bare.

Scars stretches and coils against her skin, from situations that had gotten out of hand – curses that had cut her in half only to be forced back together, pink splotchy skin stretching up from her toes to mid-thigh on her right where she’d gotten it blown off.

Master of Death meant that death never stayed – that, no-matter what, she would always return to life, rejected by the ultimate End.

It wasn’t an elegant art and Harry had only been nineteen when she stepped from one world to the next – a chance thing in an alleyway to escape a particularly fanatic reporter that had landed her in a warped reality where Voldemort had been clever enough to send others to do his work.

It paints an ugly picture but Tom’s eyes are pitiless where they watches her.

The knife forms familiar in the palm of her hand, a pretty thing wreathed in red carnations, and Harry twist and slams it into her chest as Tom straightens out – knuckles whitening against the armrest as Harry grits her teeth and forces it down, blood filling her mouth, swallowed down.

She drags it out and slams it down against, dragging down in a slanted line that connects with the end of her first.

Left is a ragged ‘V’ over her heart, blood painting long lines down her body and Harry drops the knife to the ground.

“Well?” she challenges as the Dark Lord rises liquidly from her chair and steps up towards her, a terrible sort of fascination burning in her gaze as Harry is forced to tilt her head up to keep her gaze.

“ _You_ , are a terrifying creature,” Tom murmurs, pressing her palm possessively over the mark, wound stinging, nails digging into it her skin – backing her up until Harry’s calves hit the end of the bed.

“It’s all about the aesthetics.” Harry’s bares her teeth in a grin, allowing herself to be pushed back, landing with a _flump._ “Not afraid I’ll get your bed bloody?” she asks, wiggling up and back against the pillows, settling like a bloodied offering among them.

“Oh,” Tom grins sharply. “I am _counting on it._ ”

Harry’s mouth dries as Tom reaches up, rucking her shirt loose from cleverly hidden buttons, letting it fall behind her, baring pale breasts, pants pooling without any underwear in sight – allowing Harry to slowly drink in the sight of her body, the androgynous slimness of her hips, the alien stretch of her limbs and face as an side-effect of her soul splitting, leaving her not quite human looking.

There was nothing conventional about it – the Dark Lord’s magic thick and heady where it curls beneath her skin, a reek of death that calls to something deep inside Harry as the other shifts, straddling her hips in a single smooth move by long legs, unbothered by her own nudity and clearly pleased by Harry’s reaction to her as she settles on top of her.

“And now I get to decide what I want to do with you first,” Tom observes, sliding her palm up and over the wound, fingers curling around Harry’s neck, tightening. “I’m going to make you come undone,” Tom breathes, bending down, her breath strangely cool where it brushes over Harry’s mouth. “I’m going to tear you apart and have you crying out my name over and _over_ again.”

“Yeah?” Harry gets out, swallowing roughly against the tightening of her neck.

Tom hums, her gaze lingering on the black of the Deathly Hallows burnt into her eye as Harry stares up at her, arms relaxed at her sides.

She loses her grip, raising her hand up, and Harry watches in fascination as a tongue, longer than a normal humans, snakes out and drags along the inside of her wrist and up, catching the blood with long strokes as Harry stares at her, heart pounding inside her chest as the Dark Lord’s mouth seals and drags from knuckle to the tip of her fingers with a wet _pop._

Fingers wet with saliva she touches down against the wound on Harry’s chest, digging into the top parts of the V with index and middle-finger, and dragging them down to meet in the middle before she brings them up to Harry’s trembling lips, painting them red before shifting, curling down and slanting her mouth over Harry’s.

Iron and salt, a stringent of something entirely human and beyond her as the cool tongue strokes up against her lips, dipping inside to curl around her tongue as she strains up against it, opening up and deepening it with a thick twist of need as it turns rough and liquidly with intention, teeth drawing sharply on her lower lip, sucking the blood clinging there with a hum of satisfaction as she draws back.

“Can I – can I taste you?” Harry gets out with a ragged breath, eyes intent and wanting.

Tom’s mouth stretches and instead of answering she rises up, allowing Harry to slink lower, hands grasping at pale thighs as she stares up at the pale hairless folds, the pink oddly faded, but it’s all she catches before Tom is lowering herself down,

The smell is heady and Harry curves up to meet her with an arch of her back, tongue dipping out to push flat up, spreading her labia, dipping momentarily against her entrance before twisting up towards her clit with a groan at the taste.

Tom settles heavily down at her, grasping her hair, but Harry barely notices, busy tasting the other, lapping against her with rough broad strokes, making sure to get every last trace of her before curving her shoulders and pressing against the entrance to the body above her, twisting wetly, wiggling it inside to stroke up against the bundle of nerves that Harry become intimately acquainted with the last few months.

The Dark Lord grasps her hair and grinds down as Harry pushes up and she moans, desperate to get every last bit of slick as she pulls at Tom’s thighs to a small laugh and fingers smoothing down over the scar on her forehead as walls clenches along her tongue, letting her feel the rippling of the flesh with a whimper as she twists up against it.

The feeling is unlike anything Harry has ever experienced – the wetness and taste heady and addictive as she practically clings to the other.

 _“Good girl,”_ Tom murmurs and Harry clenches down on nothing with a muffled whimper against her folds, jaw straining as she pushes up and into her.

The Dark Lord pushes down against her, the movement rough and straining, rocking almost lazily against her mouth.

The ache between her legs grows with every desperate push, thighs rubbing together, straining, her senses completely filled with the other, dark magic prickling beneath her fingers, against her tongue, desperation and want making her push harder, deeper-

Tom’s walls clenches down on her with barely a catch of her breath, slick, thick and addicting, spilling onto her tongue as she whimpers against her.

The Dark Lord’s hand tightens in warning and Harry reluctantly withdraws her tongue, sucking against it as the other shifts with a spindly sort of grace, watching avidly as the she settles between her legs, pushing them into a wide spread as Harry’s cheeks and chest darkens, squirming against the pillows as the other leans down and inhales deeply.

There’s a patch of black nestled between her legs and Tom reaches out, dragging nails through the curls, tugging almost teasingly before spreading out her folds, thumb stroking up against her clit with a jolt of her hips, muscles knotting as her fingers curls into the bedding with an arch of her back as cool air brushes over her.

Lips presses against the flatness of her belly and Harry whimpers, quivering, pupil blown, eating the green of her eyes.

“Will you allow me to _fuck you_ ,” Tom murmurs, the word impossibly filthy on her tongue. “Oh _Master of Death_?” There’s something almost teasing in the question despite the intensity of her eyes.

 _“Yes,”_ Harry gasps. “Yesyesyes, _please_ -“

Nails scrapes against the back of her thigh to a twitch and a kiss presses against the dip of her navel before Tom draws back and Harry struggles through the buzz of want in her mind as she’s guided around – finding herself on her hands on knees, trembling with nerves and overwhelming need, embarrassingly close to the edge of an orgasm, the coil of tension nearly unbearable.

Something presses up against her and there’s a moment where her brain can’t quite make sense of it, the rhythmic _thu-thump thu-thump_ of her heart strangely loud inside of her mind.

And then Tom was snapping forward and Harry didn’t know much more than the fact that she was being spread far wider and harder than she’d anticipated, barely given a chance to anticipate the rough thrust of something that definitely hadn’t been there before as Tom’s hips presses up against her rump, hands grasping at her hips to keep her still as she instinctively tries to jerk away.

_“Tom-“_

A hand strokes down her flank as Harry trembles, walls clenching down against something too wide and too thick inside of her, virginity stolen with a single pitiless thrust and she swallows, sweat beading on her skin, hardly daring to breathe, hardly daring to move, every breath a quiver, short and strained.

“Tom-“ She squeezes her eyes shut, gasping as a tongue flattened against the bottom of her spine, dragging up in a strange cat-like claim.

“There are many curious magic’s out there,” Tom murmurs, admiring the way the Master of Death stretches around her cock, magic prickling thickly beneath the surface of it, making Harry twitch from the strange feeling inside of her. “This is one of my favourites from my youth.”

Tom drags back and pushes forward, spreading her forcefully as Harry clings wide-eyed and overwhelmed as hips smacks up against her, the noise ringing through her brain, something straining painfully inside of her as the Dark Lord bottoms out into her, the head of her cock pushing up roughly against the entrance to her womb as Harry jolts.

“I’m not-“ _ready_ , Harry bites down on the word, gasping as she’s forced open, cock dragging all the way out of her and then pushing back inside with a twitch and a desperate noise as she tightens down to keep the Dark Lord from pulling out, to prevent that desperate achy emptiness, and Tom laughs as she snaps forward, thrusting hard enough that Harry momentarily forgets to breathe – suspended in a heady mix of pain and pleasure that twists up inside of her.

Tom grinds down as Harry claws desperately into the sheets, biting down on her lip, head hanging heavily to a curve of her back, muscles knotted tight.

The grip on her hips is bruising – the feeling of being fucked alien.

The one taking her is the female version of the man that had once ended her life, sealing her into a loop of renewal, unable to die, unable to live, the world decaying around her while she remained standing, ever seventeen, untouched by it all.

Harry bites down on the inside of her cheek and pushes back into the next thrust, a desperate sort of noise swallowed down as she’s taken over and over again, scraping against raw nerves and mashing up against her cervix with spikes of pain that makes her inner muscles quiver as arousal twists through her, building painfully with each rough smack of flesh-meeting-flesh.

“Just like that,” Tom praises and Harry clenches down hard on her. “Just like that – you take me so beautifully.” She murmurs, leaning forward to tangle her hand in Harry’s hair and jerk it painfully back, bending her back in an arch that makes her slip impossibly deeper with a flash of _too much_ and Harry comes with a sharp jerk, locking up tight around the drag of the cock inside of her.

“Look at you,” Tom breathes, a giddy sort of possessiveness in her voice as she takes Harry with growing roughness. “Where is your pride, Master of Death – spread out and _bred._ ”

The last word registers muzzily at the edge of her senses as Tom hilts herself up tight against her, pinning her hips in place and then something warm and sticky was filling her up and Harry’s mind mutes in shock, eyes widening as Tom pushes up deep inside of her with a rough press.

“It’s a pretty clever spell,” Tom informs her, tickling fingers against her flank as she slowly relaxes. “I realized, when I was still at Hogwarts, that I was entirely uninterested in being penetrated.” She leans dock, pressing a kiss against Harry’s spine. “That I was uninterested in carrying a child.”

Harry closes her eyes, shivering.

“So I prevented my body from developing into it – all I needed were the right potions, the right kind of ritual.” She pushes forward, letting Harry hear the squish of cum inside of her. “The right kind of _carrier._ ”

“I’m not-“ Something wretches curls inside of her, thickening her tongue as Tom slides out of her, nudging her down on her back, stretching out over her with lips pressing against the middle of the V on her chest.

“You didn’t come here for _nothing_ ,” Tom breathes, tongue dipping into the wound, stroking up. “You didn’t go _centuries_ without sex to seek me out here and now.” Harry’s eyes widen and she bites down on her lip as Tom folds her arms on top of her chest, watching her with liquid amusement from the vicinity of her breasts. “Don’t think me a fool, little Master of Death. _Something_ drew you to me – something that made you unable to stay away, despite your best instincts telling you otherwise.”  

Harry looks away, unable to deny it.

“The question,” Tom muses, “is what would bring the Master of Death herself to seek another version of the person who gave you _that scar._ ” Harry stills. “It’s a rather curious thing – a dead echo,” Tom says, brow dipping momentarily. “You, were once a horcrux but – I have never heard of a human being made into one. I would think it defeats its purpose – to anchor onto something destined to die.”

“It was an accident,” Harry admits and Tom hums, red eyes studying her.

“Tell me, how long has it been since you united the Hallows?”

Harry stills, mind blank for answer as she stares down at the Dark Lord.

“I don’t know,” she admits, the truth bitter on her tongue.

The other watches her for a long moment before Tom shifts and Harry stills as her cock snags at the entrance of her body – hilting into her with a wet slide as she squirms at the feeling, breath catching as the other bottoms out inside of her.

“There’s a curious thing I discovered with this,” Tom says, leaning back with a curl of her back, staring down at Harry, something curious glittering in her eyes. “I’m not limited to the reality of _men_.”

Harry’s mind takes about two seconds to catch up with the reality of that statement as Tom drags out of her, mouth curling as she snapped back inside, pinning her arms down in place as she swells inside of her and Harry _keens_ , eyes rolling back, mind fraying, control of out her grasp as she’s forced to stretch past any reasonable limits, gasping as Tom let out a laugh, leaning down to drag her tongue up her sternum.

“I promised you, didn’t I?” Tom gasps as she pushes inside, her own muscles tightening. “That I was going to make you come _undone_. That I was going to _tear you apart and make you come over and over again._ ”

Her cock drags inside of her, pushing burning nerves past their limits, everything too much and far too overwhelming, her wrists straining against the grip of the Dark Lord, the noise that leaves her lips something alien and overwhelming as she coils desperately, the reality of her mounting orgasm making tears prickle at her eyes as she stares up at Tom through a hazy blur.

Tom shifts her grip and Harry arches as a hand closes hard around her throat, the world muting into a strange slow buzz around her as she grasps desperately at Tom’s wrist, nails digging into her pale flesh, unable to draw breath as reality prickles into a rough focus on the drag and thrust of the cock between her legs, mouth moving above her without the words registering.

Harry comes _hard_ but Tom doesn’t relent, releasing just enough to allow her a desperate ragged breath as she keeps fucking her through one overstimulated orgasm into the next.

 _“You are mine, little Master of Death,”_  Tom whispers into her ear as she fills her up a fourth time, pressed deep inside of her, and Harry’s too out of it to do more than jerk with a whimper as the Dark Lord shifts her carefully, curling around her and nuzzling up against her cheek, Harry's blood drying on their chests, the cum thick inside of her

Harry breathes in her scent, slowly relaxing against her body, sated and feeling far more human than she had in forever.

 _Yours,_ she agrees contently.

-

There's death and war painted her skin, whispering inside of her, a constant awareness that decayed living humans in her mind when they met the mark in her eye - a whisper of the exact date and time of their death coiling through her knowlingly.

It's a chance of fate that crosses her paths with this Tom, just one among thousands upon thousands.

But this Voldemort – she doesn't have an End.

And Harry will cross any sense of reason if it means staying with her.

**Author's Note:**

> I really like the idea of female Tom and Harry together but I'm def more familiar with one of these concepts so I've been considering how I wanted this to play out while staring at the pages in my books.
> 
> I really wanted to write a middle-aged Tom bcs there's far too little fics that allow women to be sexual in their fifties, unlike men. So working with that I scratched this out.
> 
> I ended up really liking her and I hope you do too! I had a lot of fun measuring her against a tired MoD Harry Potter who has spent far too much time on her own.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
